


The Beast Within

by Marauderess5



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst comas, Blood and Injury, Ciri ships it, Dubious Medical Procedures, Dubious Science, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I'm embarrassed for him really, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Off-screen torture, Our poor precious heartbroken bard, Overuse of Geralt saying "Jaskier", Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Post-episode s01e06, Pre-Slash, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Queerplatonic Geraskier, Queerplatonic Relationships, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Temporary Witcher!Jaskier, The boys finally talk about their feelings, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25424809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marauderess5/pseuds/Marauderess5
Summary: Jaskier idly wondered if perhaps he’d still be traveling with Geralt, if he were more like the heroic bard from his ballad.Garden-variety "Jaskier gets kidnapped to bait Geralt into revealing the whereabouts of Ciri" excuse for a hurt/comfort fic. Jaskier throws himself a grand pity party. Geralt realizes he really cares for the dumb idiot. Lots of Feelings (TM) ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 433





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a "violence" warning just in case, but most of the actual violence occurs off-screen. I'm pretty queasy so I just needed someone ELSE to hurt the poor bard so that I could send all of the soft!Geralt comfort his way.

Looking back on it, Jaskier is glad Geralt wasn’t there that night, even if his presence would have prevented all of the pain and terror that came next. Despite it all…Jaskier is still fervently grateful Geralt wasn’t there to see him at his absolute lowest.

It was embarrassing, really, how long Jaskier sulked after he and Geralt parted ways on the mountain. Or, rather, after Geralt stormed off like a raging striga and Jaskier slunk away like a kicked goat with its tail between its legs. And with the remains of its shattered heart dripping from its fingertips.

Jaskier went back to the only thing he could do, the only thing he was good at, but his heart wasn’t in it. Unsurprisingly, the general populace began to turn on him for his lackluster performances. No one enjoyed listening to a maudlin, raspy-voiced, drunkard of a bard when visiting the local tavern with childhood friends. It reminded them too much of their own sad, stagnant lives. Everyone wanted to hear about the Witcher, the great White Wolf, and all Jaskier wanted to do was forget that the Witcher in question had ever existed.

On the night in question, Jaskier was well and truly sloshed, and he knew this performance would be a losing battle before even picking up his lute. He certainly wasn’t putting his best foot forward with his appearance—his doublet was buttoned up incorrectly, his hair was askew due to sheer lack of attention, and the circles under his eyes clued everyone in to his current energy level. (Though it may have been fashionable to grow a beard in times of intense grief, Jaskier was still clean-shaven—he did have standards, gods damn it.)

Jaskier plucked at his lute and mentally sorted through his catalogue of ballads. Instinct—and several long years on the road—told him this this crowd was ripe for a jig or a drinking song, but Jaskier was feeling maudlin, and unfortunately for the assembled crew of fishermen, merchants, carpenters, paupers, and fellow drunkards, Jaskier was the one onstage, holding an instrument, with the complete attention of every being in the room.

He began to croon something he had written a couple of months into his travels with Geralt, in which the Witcher is grievously injured by a bloedzuiger, but his heroic companion—purported to be just a humble bard—manages to whisk the Witcher away to safety, stitch up his wounds, and then finish off the beast himself. Jaskier had played it for Geralt first, a private performance by the campfire they had set up outside of village whateverthefuck, and Geralt had laughed uproariously. Well, he had rolled his eyes as his mouth quirked upward in a not-so-potent grimace. Which Jaskier had counted as an uproarious laugh.

Jaskier idly wondered if perhaps he’d still be traveling with Geralt, if he were more like the heroic bard from his ballad.

His finger slipped and he struck a discordant note.

After that, it didn’t take long for the crowd to turn on him, as crowds are wont to do when their expectations aren’t met. Jaskier managed to dodge most of the food pelted at him from all corners of the tavern, but the rejection still stung. (Even though he probably deserved it this time.) It reminded him of the time he first met Geralt—

No. He refused to think of that right now, because Geralt wasn’t there to show him kindness.

After being unceremoniously booed offstage, Jaskier shuffled over the innkeeper, who parted reluctantly with the coinpurse Jaskier was owed (a performance was a performance, after all) and then suggested (not unkindly) that Jaskier go for a walk to clear his head before turning in for the evening. 

(Though Jaskier knew it wasn’t his head that was the problem.)

Which is why, when the Nilfgaardian soldiers showed up to abduct him, Jaskier was disappointingly sober.

One by one they emerged from the shadows, until Jaskier found himself surrounded by a host of menacing, scowling thugs with big, pointy swords. He entertained a brief feeling of flattery that they had thought to bring so many men to take him down, before the familiar feeling of dread came over him.

The leader—medium-build, stark blonde hair, with an oddly intricate royal blue sash—stepped forward and held out his palms in a gesture of peace.

“You’re the White Wolf’s bard, are you not?”

Jaskier tightened his grip on his lute strap but did not answer. Which was rare for him, of course, since as Geralt could attest, normally he never shuts up. In fact, if Geralt were here—

Well. Geralt would have gotten him out of this. But Geralt was not here, so Jaskier would have to improvise.

He put on his best stage grin and said loudly, “Ah, yes, I see my fame precedes me! Always an honor to meet my fans. Geralt should be along shortly, in which case I strongly suggest you—” 

“Oh, I doubt that.” The man with the blue sash grinned even wider, but his eyes were ice-cold. “Geralt of Rivia hasn’t been seen around these parts in months.”

Jaskier’s heart dropped.

“Fortunately for us,” the man drawled, “You show up, bringing us that much closer to our goal! The gods can be very kind indeed sometimes, don’t you think?”

Jaskier eyed the soldiers warily. “What do you want with him, exactly?”

“What do we…?” The blue-sashed man looked at his men in consternation. He adopted an expression of extreme faux-exasperation, one that Jaskier himself had perfected in his many months of traveling with a grumpy Witcher who had seemingly no concern at all for his own well-being or personal hygiene. 

“Do you mean to say,” the man continued slowly, when Jaskier still hadn’t answered, “That you don’t know anything about the Witcher’s new traveling companion?”

Jaskier’s heart turned to ice. 

“So he’s replaced me already?” Jaskier aimed desperately for humor, tripped at the finish line, and watched his chances for escape soar majestically into the horizon. “Good to know I was so appreciated all that ti—” 

A blow across his face left him reeling. Gloved hands caught him before his face could properly greet the ground, and a blue sash sauntered into his swimming vision. The leader lifted up Jaskier’s chin to force him to meet his cold gaze. Through a haze of shock and pain, Jaskier was vaguely startled to see that the man’s eyes were curiously similar to his own.

“You’re funny,” the man said matter-of-factly. “And talkative, as well. That’s good—we have _a lot_ to talk about. But not here, of course. We have more... _comfortable_ accommodations set up.” 

He nodded to one of the soldiers gripping Jaskier, and Jaskier’s witty retort became a whisper in the wind as another sharp pain flared in the back of his head, and he tumbled into blackness.

* * *

When Jaskier was little, he would tell everyone he met that he knew he was meant for something more. Swashbuckling adventures, grand (...doomed) romances, monsters, magic, and mayhem. The usual fare for a child growing up without any actual monsters to contend with. 

Until he ferried himself away from the constricting life he was spoon-fed growing up, and struck out on his own. (Jaskier was still fiddling with the particular details of that grand escape—how he would memorialize himself in his final, epic ballad, looking back on his long life while lying in bed at the ripe old age of forever, strumming on his lute, surrounded by the touch, the scent, the feel of...someone….) 

Right now, however, he was lying on a damp stone floor, at a tender young age, sans his precious lute and very much missing...someone. Who was probably (...hopefully) far, far away from this hellhole, making a new life for himself with his Child Surprise.

Jaskier prayed to whatever gods might be listening that Ciri actually _was_ with Geralt, because that would mean she was safe, and happy, albeit probably slightly exasperated, though very much better than being dead. Like Jaskier himself was certainly about to be.

He felt a thrill of fear shudder through him. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and tried not to think about the one person he couldn’t stop thinking about, one person they were absolutely going to ask him about. The cold floor felt soothing against his aching head.

His respite did not last long.

The click of boots outside was the only warning he had before the door to his cell was thrown open. A sudden gust of air tickled his sore face and raised goosebumps on his arms.

“Hello, bard,” said the Nilfgaardian captain with the blue sash. “Sleep well?”

Jaskier cracked open his eyes. “No.”

“That’s too bad.” Blue Sash sounded so genuinely disappointed that Jaskier almost actually believed him. That is, until he nodded curtly to the two guards flanking him, and Jaskier was torn from the stone floor and unceremoniously slammed against the wall. His stomach churned at the sudden movement.

The captain leaned in so that he was nose-to-nose with Jaskier. “Where is Princess Cirilla?” he asked softly.

Jaskier winced at the soldiers’ iron grips on his arms. “Erm,” he swallowed. “...In Cintra?”

The breath was stolen from his lungs as one of the guards dug a heavily armored fist into his stomach.

“I sense that you’re not planning on being very cooperative,” leered the captain. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”

The dramatist in Jaskier rolled his eyes at the captain’s unforgivable cliche. 

But his sense of self-preservation finally began to kick in as one of the guards raised his fist to strike him again. “Wait!” Jaskier flinched, and immediately hated himself for doing so. “I...I did hear that Geralt had found the Lion Cub of Cintra. B-But I don’t know where they are, I swear!”

“Oh he _swears,_ ” the captain jeered, looking to the two guards for a sycophantic guffaw. (They complied admirably.)

Jaskier’s heart jumped to his throat. He swallowed around the fear and said again, as steadily as he could manage, “I don’t know where they are.”

The captain’s cold blue eyes swept over Jaskier’s face. “I see.” He gestured to the guard on his right and nodded. “Loosen his tongue.”

“NO!” Jaskier yelled after the retreating steps of the man with the blue sash. “I-I know nothing, I haven’t seen Geralt in...You know I haven’t been traveling with him, how could I know where they are? WAIT!”

Later, bruised and bloodied, curled up around the thrumming pain, spitting out blood onto the cold, stone floor, Jaskier refused to let himself think about how quickly he would have given them up if he actually did have any information to share.

* * *

After what felt like a lifetime, Jaskier dragged his stiff and battered body over to the damp wall and slowly moved to a sitting position. He drew his knees up, wincing as the motion pulled at his ribs, and let his head sink back against the wall. He shook with pain, grief, and shame. 

He wished he had courage. He wished he had strength. Most of all, he wished he had Geralt.

Jaskier’s stomach lurched as he heard the now familiar clicking sound of footsteps followed by the creak of his cell door opening. He shrunk against the back wall, fear crawling through his veins like fire ants. 

“Please…” His voice hitched around his dry throat, humiliation curdling in his gut at the thin, pleading tone of his usually sonorous voice. “You have to believe me. I don’t know where he is. I _wish_ I knew where he was, so that I could—” 

So that he could what? Disappoint him once again? Debase himself further? _Betray_ him? 

_Just...see him one last time..._

A pair of tall, pristine boots halted in his line of vision. 

“Don’t worry, bard,” the captain drawled, crouching down to look Jaskier in the eye. His icy gaze made Jaskier shiver. “I believe you. But I also believe we can find a use for you yet, to draw the Witcher out of hiding. Drop a limb from his precious bard in each of the towns we pass along the way back to Nilfgaard…” 

Jaskier choked. “You...you’ll run out of leverage pretty quickly.”

“You’re right.” The captain smiled, and there was a cruel glint to his gaze that Jaskier hadn’t seen before. “Maybe I should just cut off your head and be done with it.”

Jaskier’s hands jerked up involuntarily, as though attempting to ward off the killing blow. The captain laughed. He reached out a finger to Jaskier’s jaw, where a trickle of drying blood was making its way down his neck. Looking thoughtful, he rubbed the droplet of blood between his two fingers, then looked up at Jaskier with another cutting smile. “But where would be the fun in that?”

* * *

Many miles away, a Witcher tore a sheet of paper from a noticeboard. It was not the first time he was seeing this particular flyer.

He then reached for the small, oblong vial hanging from a string next to where the paper was placed. The vial contained a thick, red, viscous liquid. 

The Witcher crumpled the paper in one fist and clutched the vial with the red liquid in the other.

If anyone were looking closely, they might have noticed that he appeared to be in a heightened state of anguish. But of course, everyone was careful to avert their eyes in his presence.

The Witcher vaulted himself onto his horse and rode, and rode, and rode.

* * *

_Dear Butcher of Blaviken,_

_The Imperator of Nilfgaard humbly requests your presence, as the Bard is becoming quite tiresome._

_Come and play!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POOR SAD BBs WHY DO WE HURT THEM SO


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He gathered the limp bard into his arms, as though sheer proximity to a Witcher could protect him, instead of bringing him nothing but harm…_
> 
> _Geralt blinked, suddenly struck by a very, very bad idea._
> 
> _“This is a bad idea, Geralt,” he could almost hear Jaskier saying. “A very, very bad idea.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure, sure, humans can't take Witcher potions, but it's my fic AND I DO WHAT I WANT.
> 
> Enjoy!

By the time Geralt of Rivia arrived at his destination, his patience was running dangerously thin. He refused to count how many dingy villages he had been led through, how many vials of Jaskier’s blood he had snatched down from the village notice boards (and how many more were out there that he had missed). He wanted nothing more than to tear everyone in the entire compound to shreds for what they had done to Jaskier. It’s probably what the Nilfgaardians expected of him. But, as he was frequently told, he often did not do what was expected of him.

Nevertheless, Geralt’s grip on his sword tightened as he stealthily inched towards Jaskier’s cell. He quietly took out the guards in front of the cell door and turned the key in the rusty lock. He shut the door behind him and paused for a moment to get his bearings in the penetrating darkness.

There. In the corner. A familiar outline, slumped over as though asleep. Geralt felt a distant pang, as unbidden memories of peaceful nights by the campfire drifted to the front of his mind. But that was a long, long time ago. 

He crept over to the figure huddled on the floor. He could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears; fear was largely an unfamiliar emotion to him, but he was sure as hell experiencing it now.

“Jaskier?” His hoarse whisper echoed across the cell. His fingers were numb as he reached out a hand out to grasp the crumpled figure’s shoulder.

The bard didn’t even twitch. 

Geralt pricked up his ears for the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat, and his fear blossomed into a sickening panic when he realized Jaskier’s heartbeat was nearly as slow as his own. For a human, that meant—

No. Geralt refused to accept that.

“Jaskier, wake up,” Geralt growled, a hint of desperation coloring his normally monotonous voice.

When the bard still didn’t respond, Geralt gently shifted him onto his back in order to examine him more closely.

Dried blood caked one side of Jaskier’s hairline, the brownish-red color forming a stark contrast with the deathly pallor of his skin. Geralt ghosted shaking fingers along his chest, marking cracked ribs and more bruises than he could bear to count. But it was Jaskier’s arm that concerned him the most—the arm was mottled with shallow cuts tinged with purple.

Geralt sucked in a breath and didn’t release it for a long time.

He had dropped everything so quickly when he came across that first vial of blood; he stashed Ciri somewhere safe and galloped halfway across the continent before giving any semblance of a thought as to what he would do when he actually found Jaskier. He had curdled with rage, blinded himself with guilt and shame. And he had refused to entertain the notion that Jaskier might be too injured to waltz out of here with him, lute strapped to his shoulder, jabbering away despite Geralt’s growled pleas for silence. Or that Jaskier might already be...

Geralt released his clenched fist from Jaskier’s shirt and took a calming breath. He could wallow in guilt and shame later, when Jaskier was safe. He could apologize for his outburst on the mountain, drop the bard in the closest royal court, then find a dark corner of a local tavern to nurse an ale (or five) and brood. He could— 

Geralt’s enhanced hearing picked up a shout from within the compound, and the accompanying clink of swords being drawn. He was running out of time.

He shook the bard again—none too gently—but Jaskier’s face remained ashen, his chest worryingly still. Geralt thought he saw Jaskier’s lips move, thought he heard the sound of his name...but if it was spoken at all, it was too quiet even for Geralt’s ears. 

He growled in frustration; there was no way he’d be able to carry Jaskier back the way he came. And if a whole platoon was on its way to confront him, there was no way he could drag Jaskier through while fighting them off at the same time. And he knew, deep down, in a place of his heart he never wanted to confront, that Jaskier didn’t have that much time anyway. 

That he was dying.

And that it was completely Geralt’s fault.

He gathered the limp bard into his arms, as though sheer proximity to a Witcher could protect him, instead of bringing him nothing but harm…

Geralt blinked, suddenly struck by a very, very bad idea. 

“This is a bad idea, Geralt,” he could almost hear Jaskier saying. “A very, _very_ bad idea.”

He looked down at the bruised bard, convinced for a heartbeat of a second that Jaskier had actually spoken—but the latter remained eerily, deathly silent. It was the kind of silence Geralt had become used to since parting ways with Jaskier. But it was far from the peaceful silence he had expected. And he would do anything to have Jaskier suddenly sit up and break that silence. 

The thundering clash of boots inched closer as Geralt reached into his pack, one arm still grasping Jaskier tightly, and rooted around for a specific elixir he rarely used, preferring to let his body heal on its own: a blood-replenishing concoction.

He popped off the cork, taking one last look at the pale, lifeless bard—and his heart thudded in his chest. Witcher elixirs were lethal for humans. What Geralt was planning would most likely kill Jaskier. But if he didn’t at least try, Jaskier would die anyway. And a world without Jaskier was an untenable situation that Geralt simply refused to accept.

Geralt propped Jaskier up against his chest and held the open vial to the bard’s lips, running his fingers along his throat to coax his body into swallowing the elixir. Geralt held his breath as Jaskier reacted instinctively—choking on the unfamiliar liquid, and then swallowing it down under Geralt’s ministrations. All at once, Jaskier stiffened, and Geralt tightened his grip, fingers digging into Jaskier’s skin hard enough to bruise. He felt the familiar tendrils of guilt snake their way through his veins, but he knew that if Jaskier survived this, he’d have many, many more reasons to hate him than a couple of additional marks on his arms.

The Nilfgaardian soldiers burst into the hallway in a storm of clashing iron just as Jaskier began to spasm in Geralt’s arms.

“Jaskier…?” Geralt’s voice felt thin with fear.

The bard began to breathe in short, pained gasps, just as the door to the cell sprang open.

“Witcher,” one of the soldiers hissed.

“We need him alive, or Chendril will have our heads,” another reminded him. The second soldier’s eyes glinted with malice. “But now we will have our fun with the bard.”

As though in response to the approaching soldiers, Jaskier suddenly went limp. Geralt positioned himself in front of him and drew his sword in one sharp movement, golden eyes flashing. “No,” he growled. “You will not.”

In later years, Geralt could never quite recall who moved first, preoccupied as he was with the belief that, one way or another, he was personally responsible for Jaskier’s death. He slashed and leapt and dodged and relished the sound of his sword slicing through flesh, ridding the world of the monsters that had rid this world of Jaskier. He savored the searing pain that flashed through his thigh as one of the Nilfgaardians struck true, knowing that he deserved to suffer for Jaskier’s suffering; that he had suffered every day without his bard, that he _would_ suffer every additional day without him.

And still the soldiers kept on coming.

Geralt felt himself beginning to flag. He almost missed the flash of steel that hurtled towards his chest, dodging away at the last second and then bringing his own sword up to parry the retaliating swing a hair's breadth away from his nose. With a snarl, he kicked the attacking soldier in the groin and shoved the gasping young man to the side, only to come face-to-face with a swinging ax. And Geralt knew, with a surety that chilled his bones, that he was too off-balance to move swiftly enough to dodge the weapon. 

But before he could properly brace for the killing blow, the ax clattered to the stone floor next to his feet. Geralt looked up in surprise and noticed the point of a sword sticking out of the soldier’s chest. With a final gurgle, the soldier crumpled to the ground, revealing a bruised and bloodied bard behind where he had been standing, breathing heavily and clutching a Nilfgaardian sword in a white-knuckled grip.

“Hello, Geralt,” said Jaskier. “It’s been a while.”

Jaskier looked so much like a newly risen ghoul that Geralt’s hand instinctively twitched towards his silver sword. The bard was still deathly pale and matted with blood…but he was vibrating with an unnatural energy, veins pulsing a rotten, midnight black. And his eyes...Jaskier’s normally soft, cornflower blue eyes had sharpened to a molten gold. A _Witcher’s_ gold. 

Geralt didn’t have a chance to react before an additional onslaught of soldiers poured into the hallway. He half-reached out to shield Jaskier, but the bard had already sprang forward to greet the Nilfgaardians with the business end of his newly acquired weapon. Geralt hesitated for barely a fraction of a second before twirling his own sword and joining Jaskier in the fray. 

Jaskier swung, sliced, and stabbed like he was born with a sword in his hand...or like he had been trained to use one for years at Kaer Morhen. Soldier after soldier fell to his blade, and he showed no signs of slowing. Geralt would have been impressed, if he weren’t so disconcerted.

Because Jaskier looked like he was very much enjoying himself.

The Witcher couldn’t deny that he often used to wish that Jaskier possessed any fighting skills whatsoever. He told Jaskier (and himself) that he wanted Jaskier to fight so that he could pull his own weight during Geralt’s “witchering,” as the bard called it, instead of merely waxing philosophical from the sidelines. But if he were honest with Jaskier (and himself), he would have said it was because he was always so afraid that Jaskier would get hurt, and he wanted to know that he could protect himself.

And a not-so-small part of him had thrilled at the idea of fighting side-by-side with his friend.

Geralt felled another Nilfgaardian soldier with a blow to the neck and glanced over to see how his bard was faring; Jaskier knocked down a soldier with the hilt of his sword and then drove the sword down into the prone soldier’s chest. Sensing Geralt’s gaze, he looked up, and two pairs of golden eyes met. Geralt’s breath stuttered as Jaskier curled his lips in a feral and very un-Jaskier-like smile. 

No...the feeling of fighting alongside Jaskier wasn’t what Geralt had expected at all.

They tumbled out into the courtyard, swords held high and sharpened senses on alert. Geralt’s cut thigh pulsed with pain, as did a dozen other more minor gashes. It was time to leave...before the precious few soldiers they hadn’t killed in their daring escape mustered up the strength and courage to come after them. He called to Roach and moved none-too-smoothly in the direction of where he had left her. Roach—ever dependable—cantered out of the nearby woods and nuzzled Geralt’s shoulder in greeting. Geralt sighed with relief. And he was halfway to heaving himself onto the horse’s back when he realized Jaskier wasn’t beside him.

Jaskier was standing a couple of paces away with his back to Geralt. His entire body thrummed with a rigid line of tension as he stared at the man in a blue sash who had just emerged from the staircase behind them. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt warned. 

The bard ignored Geralt’s call, but the man in the blue sash—"Chendril," Geralt guessed, since the man was dressed in Nilfgaardian captain’s garb—turned to him with a cold and angry smile. “I have to admit, Witcher, I did not believe your bard was capable of causing quite so much trouble.”

Jaskier’s fist tightened imperceptibly around his sword.

Chendril pulled his own sword and moved lithely towards the stock-still bard, no doubt expecting to overpower him and make one final, desperate bid for Geralt’s cooperation. A surge of anger swelled within him at the thought. He growled and reached for his sword—but the Witcher-blood enhanced bard was closer, and faster. 

Jaskier snarled and leapt towards Chendril, catching the larger man off-guard with a swing towards his midsection. The captain twisted away just in time and used a responding parry to topple Jaskier to the ground over his shoulder. Jaskier scrambled to his feet and then, to both Chendril’s and Geralt’s surprise, backhanded the captain across the face, using the ensuing distraction to slash him across the chest with a triumphant shout. He followed Chendril to the ground, planted his knees on either side of his chest, and raised his sword in two hands to thrust home the final blow.

“ _Jaskier!_ ”

The bard’s head whipped up at Geralt’s cry. 

“Leave him,” Geralt said, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the courtyard. He met Jaskier’s gaze with his own. “There’s no need to...You’re free. Let’s go before others arrive.”

Jaskier’s eyes burned with a mix of emotions that suddenly seemed very familiar from the last time he had seen Jaskier—confusion, betrayal, and above all, pain. But the pain looked different this time...like it had rooted inward, hardened, and finally managed to explode its way to the surface.

“How can you say that?” Jaskier’s voice rasped with suppressed rage. “There’s no ‘ _need’_ ...? He wanted to hurt you and Ciri, and I couldn’t...He hurt me, he _used_ me and then discarded me like I was worth nothing…”

And Geralt realized, with a jolt that took his breath away, that Jaskier wasn’t talking about the Nilfgaardian captain anymore. Geralt looked at Jaskier— _really_ looked at him—and felt his heart crumble to ash.

“Jaskier…” he began, softly.

Jaskier lowered the sword, but the angry glint in his eye remained.

“I said terrible things... _untrue_ things.” Neither of them had to clarify what he was referring to. Though he spoke quietly, shamefully, Geralt’s raspy confession carried in the emptiness of the courtyard. “But I...I do need you.”

Jaskier blinked and seemed to come back to himself, his gaze suddenly softening. The Niflgaardian captain wheezed underneath him, bleeding sluggishly, as Jaskier stood up on shaky legs. 

Geralt reached out a tentative hand, but before either of them could move, their hearing picked up the approaching sound of boots on the ground.

Reinforcements had arrived.

Geralt cursed himself for not hearing them sooner—but, of course, Jaskier always had a way of distracting him.

He hurried toward Roach, wincing slightly as the wound in his thigh twinged. “Come on, we need to—” 

“You’re right, Geralt,” Jaskier said, voice sounding a bit strange. The Witcher turned back to see him running his fingers thoughtfully along the blade of the sword he still held. “With these powers, I actually _can_ be useful to you.”

“No...Jaskier—” 

The bard whirled and greeted the new onslaught of soldiers with glinting steel.

Geralt groaned, one hand on Roach’s rains and the other on the pommel of his sword. _No._ _This ends now_. He vaulted onto Roach’s back and took in the sight in front of him with mounting horror. Despite his enhanced Witcher powers, Jaskier was about to get himself slaughtered.

“Jaskier!” Geralt urged his mare in the bard’s direction and held out a hand. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought Jaskier would turn away from him and continue his doomed rampage. But something flickered in his eyes, and he grasped Geralt’s outstretched hand and nimbly leapt onto the front of Geralt’s horse.

They were far enough away that Geralt was just beginning to relax when Jaskier shuddered and slumped forward in the saddle.

Geralt rode at a full gallop, clinging tightly to the bard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I shouldn’t cross the streams, but the Clone Wars allusion fit so well.... Let me know if you catch it. ;)
> 
> Next up: GERALT DEALING WITH EMOTIONS


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He briefly considered using Axii, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of inflicting any more Witcher-related harm on Jaskier. Instead, he took a steadying breath and put his hands on either side of Jaskier’s face, trying to meet the bard’s frenzied gaze with his own. “Jaskier,” he said quietly, “It’s okay. You’re safe now. Look at me, okay?” Jaskier’s terrified, still-yellow eyes darted back to Geralt’s face. “I know this will be hard for you. I...I wish I could spare you that pain. But we need to do this to help you. Your body is fighting against the elixir I gave you, and this...procedure...is the only thing that can save your life.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had honestly just planned on vaguely implying all of the healing stuff in order to skip straight to the fluff, but blame Andrzej Sapkowski for spending like 30 pages in the last Witcher novel describing battlefield doctoring in gory detail, and though I skimmed through most of it and gagged through all of it, I guess I was somewhat inspired? But I still made everything up because fanfiction. Don’t try this at home, kids.
> 
> Timeline/character notes: Ciri is closer to book-age Ciri when Geralt first meets her, and Yennefer feels more like Game!Yennefer then Book/Netflix!Yennefer. And speaking of Yen: I didn't plan on including her because her character doesn't really interest me much, but then I had this vision of how a conversation between Yennefer and Jaskier about Geralt could possibly play out on the show. Even this is 100% wish fulfillment, I know, but...it was a fun experiment. *winks at Netflix*

Jaskier doesn’t remember much of the ride from the Nilfgaardian dungeon. Just a blinding, burning sensation coursing through his veins, and the tangy stench of fever and blood. There was also a jolt of something sharp and bitter in the air that his brain— _his_ brain?—somehow identified as _fear_. But it wasn’t coming from him.

And he recalls, implausible though it seems, a swirl of gentle words. Calloused hands calming his jackrabbiting heart. Sweeping back his sweat-slicked hair with a cooling touch.

In that haze, he burned, and burned, and burned.

* * *

Jaskier was burning in his arms when he pulled Roach to a halt in front of the first house in the village. 

“I need a healer,” Geralt said brusquely, when a haggard-looking woman holding two identical toddlers answered the door. She glanced behind him, where Jaskier was slumped against Roach’s neck, and then nodded to the right. “Two doors down, across the way.”

The healer was a nervous-looking woman named Mola with bouncy curls and fidgety hands. She helped Geralt lay the semi-conscious Jaskier down on her examination table as the Witcher haltingly told her what was wrong with him.

“A Witcher elixir?” The healer’s eyes widened and she brought a trembling hand to her mouth. Geralt gripped Jaskier’s shoulder tightly as another full-body shudder tore through the bard. He was already beginning to seriously doubt the credentials of this healer, who looked to be about 15 years old and way too anxious to be handling professional medical equipment.

“Witcher elixirs are fatal for regular humans,” Mola scolded, unnecessarily. 

“I had no choice,” Geralt growled, not wanting to have this conversation now. Or ever.

“You could have let him die.”

Geralt’s heart lurched. “No,” he said shortly. “I couldn’t. What kind of question is that, anyway? Are you even a healer?”

“Are you even a Witcher?” she countered. 

He scowled.

Mola didn’t bother waiting for an answer. Geralt watched her clean the blood off of Jaskier’s face, chest, and arms, prepping him for treatment as she calmly explained in detail what she was going to do. Geralt observed, with some degree of surprise, that her voice and her hands were steady as can be.

Jaskier suddenly moaned through gritted teeth. His eyes fluttered open and settled on the Witcher beside him. The irises were still a stormy, sickly yellow, and it made Geralt’s heart thunder in his chest.

“Please…” Jaskier mumbled, his breath hitching. Shaking hands scrabbled for purchase on Geralt's armor. “Don’t…” 

Geralt swallowed, hating that he had no idea what Jaskier was asking, what he wanted. “You’re going to be okay,” he said instead, glancing up at Mola for confirmation. The healer twitched and avoided his gaze.

She held up a terrifying large needle and tapped it experimentally. The needle was connected to a beaker of Jaskier’s blood that she had received from Geralt as well as a now-empty beaker. Geralt eyed the contraption skeptically, wondering too late if he should have risked the extra time to haul Jaskier to Yennefer instead.

“Hold him still,” Mola said.

Geralt placed a light pressure on the bard’s chest as Mola turned over Jaskier’s arm, exposing the already bruised and mottled flesh.

Jaskier’s eyes flew open once again.

He focused on the startled Witcher with sudden, dizzying clarity. “Geralt, no,” he whispered. “Don’t let them...No…” He vainly tried to pull away from Mola’s surprisingly strong grip, his body shaking with silent tremors. 

Geralt felt like the ground had tilted out from underneath him. His throat was dry as he laid a (hopefully) comforting hand on the bard’s shoulder. “Jaskier, she’s trying to help you. Stay calm.”

His effort backfired spectacularly.

“NO!” Jaskier scrambled up on the table and—Witcher strength still coursing through his veins—violently jerked away from both Mola and Geralt. Mola nearly dove on top of him in an attempt to hold him down.

“Wait!” Geralt tugged her back. “Stop. Let me—”

“Let you what, whisper sweet nothings in his ear?” Mola snapped, as Jaskier thrashed underneath her. Geralt did a double-take and for a moment, couldn’t speak. Mola’s eyes widened fearfully. “He doesn’t have much time!”

“Shut up,” Geralt growled, when he finally found his voice. 

He briefly considered using Axii, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of inflicting any more Witcher-related harm on Jaskier. Instead, he took a steadying breath and put his hands on either side of Jaskier’s face, trying to meet the bard’s frenzied gaze with his own. “Jaskier,” he said quietly, “It’s okay. You’re safe now. Look at me, okay?” Jaskier’s terrified, still-yellow eyes darted back to Geralt’s face. “I know this will be hard for you. I...I wish I could spare you that pain. But we need to do this to help you. Your body is fighting against the elixir I gave you, and this...procedure...is the only thing that can save your life.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he uttered so many words in a row. He knew he was rambling, and he knew that Jaskier’s life was quickly slipping away. But Jaskier was looking at him with naked fear in his eyes, and Geralt…

Geralt couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear that he had to hurt Jaskier yet again in order to save him. He couldn’t bear that he continued to push his closest friend in the world further and further away. He couldn’t bear the thought that even if Jaskier survived this, the bard would likely never want to see him again.

And he couldn’t bear the abrupt softening of Jaskier’s gaze and the deep well of _trust_ Geralt saw simmering behind his previously panicked stare. 

Jaskier stopped struggling and allowed Geralt to lower him back down, though his muscles still thrummed with a dissonant line of tension. Mola shot Geralt a look that he couldn’t even begin to decipher and deftly finished setting up her miracle cure contraption.

“Hold him,” she said once again.

Geralt did.

* * *

Hours later, Jaskier was still looking wan and shivery when Geralt walked back into the healer’s hut with some provisions for the road and for the destination: oat bread, hard cheese, dried apple slices, a change of clothing for Jaskier, and a charming, whittled arrowhead for Ciri. He had already been away from her for far too long.

Geralt laid a hand on Jaskier’s brow, wincing at the clammy coolness of his skin. 

“Is he fit to travel?” He glanced up at Mola, who was organizing herbs and potions on one of her shelves. 

“To the nearby inn, maybe,” she grunted, not turning around.

Geralt grimaced, weighing his options. His arrival in the town had likely already attracted unwanted attention. Due to his concern for Jaskier’s condition, they hadn’t traveled nearly far enough away from the Nilfgaardian encampment. If the remainder of the Nilfgaardian captain’s men weren’t already here, they’d certainly be scouring the village fairly soon.

He needed to get Jaskier somewhere safe.

Geralt packed up his belongings and newly acquired provisions and rooted through Roach’s saddlebag for the healer’s payment. When he came back inside, Mola was glaring at him through narrowed eyes. 

“You’re making a mistake.”

“I’ve made many,” Geralt grunted. He handed her a coinpurse and thought to tell her that she should probably work on her bedside manner. But... she was undoubtedly a capable healer—a _miracle_ healer, if Geralt ever allowed himself to be honest about what Jaskier’s chances of survival had been—so instead he fished out another coinpurse and handed it to her with a nod of thanks, leaving a surprised but grateful healer in his wake.

Despite his parting conversation (or lack thereof) with Mola, Geralt had no intention of traveling a long path with Jaskier in this condition. The voice at the other end of the xenovox registered surprise at Geralt’s request, but the Witcher gritted his teeth and stood firm. And though he hated portals more than most categories of monsters he encountered, he would walk through a thousand of them if it meant sparing Jaskier another moment of pain.

Geralt quickly checked that the bard was laid semi-comfortably along Roach’s back. Then, he gripped Roach’s reins and led them both through the churning portal.

* * *

Awareness returned to him slowly, waxing and waning like a half-remembered tune. He felt like he was floating on a cloud—silken sheets underneath him, soft wool above him...a crisp sea breeze wafting through an open window...

...the scent of lilac and gooseberries…

Jaskier groaned.

“Oh, hush,” Yennefer scoffed, and he could hear the eyeroll in her tone of voice. “If you make a fuss, I’ll kick you out of my bed, no matter how much Geralt pouts.”

There were too many concepts and implications in that sentence for Jaskier’s still-fuzzy mind to comprehend, so he continued taking stock of his own sensations instead. His limbs felt as jittery and weak as a newborn foal, and there were percussive thrums of pain in his abdomen, as well as a persistent buzzing behind his eyes.

“Where…” he whispered, before his energy failed him. Instead of answering, Yennefer placed a cold hand on his wrist, and he felt an uncomfortable sensation ripple across his skin, like the itch of a phantom hair multiplied by a thousand. He shuddered, feebly attempting to pull away.

“You’re safe,” Yennefer said. It was both an attempt to placate him and enigmatically answer his unfinished question. Jaskier only had the strength to muster up a pinprick of mild irritation, but he filed the exchange away for further development of ire. 

He blinked open salt-encrusted eyes and took in the figure lording over him.

Yennefer was, absurdly, dressed to the nines, though they were by all indications in the middle of the ass-end of nowhere with no one around to observe them: her midnight-black gown flared open around her shoulders, putting her obsidian star necklace in prime view as she leaned over the bed, deft fingers moving in intricate patterns above him. Jaskier narrowed his eyes. She was gazing at him with a suspicious lack of disdain.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he mumbled.

“Like what?” Yennefer completed her spellwork and stood up, glancing away as though already bored with the current proceedings.

“With a suspicious lack of disdain.” Jaskier’s voice cracked and he began to cough. Yennefer handed him a goblet of chilled water. When Jaskier proved too weak to hold the cup himself, she helped him drink without a word of spite, which further deepened his confusion.

The cool liquid was so soothing that Jaskier felt himself beginning to nod off, already forgetting about the question that had been burning on his tongue moments ago. It was then that Yennefer answered, raking him over with her piercing violet eyes. 

“You surprise me, bard,” she said slowly. “You didn’t give them up.”

Shame reared its ugly head, reminding him of the sorry state he was in, of the pain and fear that he had been unable to quench. Of the soft, silky bed he currently occupied, compared to the cold stone floor that he thought would become his end.

 _Only because I didn’t know anything worth giving them_ , he didn’t say. _Only because Geralt came to rescue_ me _. As always. Only because the way I was able to help him at all...was by becoming less of myself._

Jaskier scoffed at the irony. Of course _that’s_ why Yennefer would finally begin to respect him. 

He couldn’t meet her gaze as he mumbled, “I wasn’t as courageous as you think.” 

“Oh, I never thought you were courageous,” Yennefer said with a light tinkle of a laugh that Jaskier had come to identify as her “ _I’m about to wreck you five ways from Saovine_ ” laugh. Jaskier tensed, wondering if perhaps he could still opt to scuttle back to that Nilfgaardian dungeon instead of weathering another moment under Yennefer’s torturous violet gaze. Where was Geralt when Jaskier _really_ needed him?

“No…” Yennefer continued thoughtfully. Her expression was inscrutable. “But you love him, don’t you?”

In his delicate and still slightly feverish state, Jaskier was unable to control the snort of derision that escaped him. The great and cunning Yennefer of Vengerberg, reduced to spouting a banal and obvious truth like it was the ultimate secret of the universe!

Yennefer’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Jaskier’s snickering morphed into a stinging, simmering anger.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little bosom, sorceress,” he snapped. “Unlike you, I can love someone deeply, passionately, and irrevocably without needing to bed them at every opportunity to prove it.” 

He half-regretted his words the moment they left his lips. It was cruel, and also not entirely true, but Jaskier was way too tired and hurt to suffer being in a room alone with Yennefer, too shivery and weak to dredge up the energy and wit to take up the challenge of their usual dance—an artfully intricate jig of self-hatred and deflection. 

_And another thing..!_ Jaskier said—or thought he said, because he lost his grip on reality for a moment as the room began to shimmer alarmingly. At first he thought Yennefer had activated some sort of magical portal to send him halfway across the continent out of sheer spite, but then he felt himself sinking deeper into the silken bed. He mustered up the remaining dregs of his rapidly depleting energy to turn away from Yennefer so as not to give her the satisfaction of watching him pass out from sheer emotion. She would never let him live it down. He had to...

As he drifted away, he could have sworn he felt the soft brush of a cool hand on his brow. But Yennefer was the only other person present, so it must have been his imagination.

Jaskier slept.

* * *

When he next awoke, he was beset by a pair of very wide, very green eyes.

“...Doesn’t this room have a latch?” he muttered.

“Certainly,” Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon said cheerfully. “But Geralt didn’t want you to feel locked in when you awoke. So he instructed us to leave it open at all times.”

That was...surprisingly thoughtful of Geralt. 

“So…” Jaskier cleared his throat. “You’re Ciri, eh? I’ve—” He inhaled sharply as unbidden memories of his recent capture wracked his body with throbbing pain— “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Ciri smiled, and Jaskier's discomfort abated somewhat. He couldn't help but smile back. She was perched in the ornate chair beside the bed, small legs swinging to and fro. “Geralt talks about you a lot, too.”

Jaskier spluttered. “ _This_ Geralt? _Our_ Geralt? Ciri, are you sure you found the right Witcher?” 

Ciri’s smile widened. “Not with words,” she clarified. “But...I can tell when he’s thinking about you.” 

Jaskier racked his aching brain to see if he could remember any myth or prophecy or legend that spoke of the child with Elder Blood being able to read people’s minds. He came up empty, but still looked away from the Cintran princess’s piercing green eyes. Just to be safe.

“So, why do you make Geralt so sad?” Ciri continued blithely, clearly oblivious to Jaskier’s pointed hints that he’d like to go back to sleep now, possibly forever, thank you very much.

Jaskier’s heart thudded painfully as he jerked his blanket back down from over his head and glared. “I’m sorry, _what_ ?” He raked Ciri’s expression for some clue as to what she wanted him to say, some idea as to where in the hell this child had come from and how she already seemed to know so much about...stuff. “ _He’s_ the one who...You see, we...because I…” Jaskier’s normally loquacious tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he struggled to navigate the deep well of emotion Ciri had just unceremoniously dropped him into. Finally, he sighed—a poet’s last resort when unable to find the appropriate words—and tugged on a loose thread from the blanket with aching fingers. “It’s...complicated.”

“That’s what Geralt said, too.” Ciri’s eyes sparkled triumphantly, as though proud of Jaskier for passing some sort of test. 

“Did he now,” Jaskier mumbled.

Jaskier struggled to a seated position as Ciri filled him in on everything she had been up to lately. Even that small effort left his weakened body winded, and Ciri halted her tale about sneaking away from a sleeping “Uncle Vesemir” to give him a glance that flickered with concern.

“I’m alright,” he said, smiling wanly, and feeling both embarrassed and impressed that such a young child had picked up on his discomfort. “Go on, then. What did you do next? Something naughty, I hope.”

Ciri grinned and launched into a story about “the pendulum,” making Jaskier cringe at his choice of words. But thankfully, Ciri’s mind appeared to remain focused on Witcher training and Witcher training only. Which then prompted Jaskier to wonder about all that _Geralt_ had gone through as a child, and he felt an irrational surge of jealousy towards the girl sitting next to him for already knowing more about where Geralt came from then he ever would.

Sure, he knew that Geralt liked his mead surprisingly watery, and he knew that even though Geralt rarely slept, when he did, he curled up in a very un-Witchery way. Jaskier knew just how Geralt liked to brush Roach (start from the left side, soft strokes along the top and rougher towards the bottom) and how (surprisingly) irritated he got when his own hair got too stringy. He knew that although Geralt snorted and scoffed when Jaskier enthusiastically offered up his hair oils, he sometimes used it when he thought Jaskier was off gathering wood for the fire.

But there was so much he didn’t know about the things that _mattered_ , the things that would make up the ballads of legend! What was Kaer Morhen like? Where did Geralt grow up before then? Who were Geralt’s parents? Did he _have_ parents? Who was the first woman he wooed? Which monster that he slayed was the fiercest? When it came to the biggest details, Geralt was a closed book, a locked chest. 

Geralt was—

—standing right there, slouching in the doorway.

"Geralt!" Jaskier yelped.

Ciri whirled around, and Jaskier could hear the pout in her voice. “No, not yet! Please, Geralt, do I _have_ to?”

The Witcher fixed his inscrutable gaze on the Cintran princess. “Yes,” he said.

“But Geraaaaaaaalt—”

“Ciri.” Geralt’s voice was firm.

Astonishingly, Ciri whirled around to Jaskier, green eyes wide in supplication. Jaskier glanced at Geralt, who hadn’t moved an inch, and then back at Ciri. He had half a mind to take her side, to beg Geralt to let her stay so that he could retreat back into the safety of spending time with the Geralt of his mind instead of being forced to contend with the real one. 

But…

“Ciri,” Jaskier whispered conspiratorially. “I’ll sneak out and find you later, alright?” 

She looked at him suspiciously, gave him a very Geralt-like “hmph!” and flounced out of the room. But before Geralt or Jaskier could move an inch, she poked her head back in, looked straight at Jaskier and mouthed, “Okay!” and then disappeared from view.

Jaskier slouched back into his pillows as Geralt silently made his way to the bed, surprising him by sitting on the edge near his ankles instead of occupying the chair Ciri had just vacated. He sighed, and something in Jaskier cracked ever-so-slightly as he took in the slumped shoulders, the stringy hair, the extra lines under his eyes.

“Weeeeell!” Jaskier cleared his throat and tried for a carefree smile. “If you ever need a babysitter, it appears I’ve already got little Ciri wrapped around my finger. Though she’s already got quite a few of your wretched mannerisms, I imagine I can wean it out of her, given enough time. In fact, in my youth I was often given watch over the youngins around the Lettenhove estate, given my, er, innate lack of swordplay abilities—”

He broke off when he realized how uncomfortably closely Geralt was scrutinizing him. Strangely, the lines under his eyes had softened and there was an oddly pleading, desperately hopeful aura surrounding him.

“Jaskier.” The name was a whisper, a desperate prayer. “You’re...okay.”

 _Nice to know you give a monkey’s_. The familiar quip leapt to the tip of his tongue. 

Jaskier wanted more than anything to just fall back into the comfortable embrace of their old rapport, and he could tell, just by observing Geralt’s preternatural stillness, how deeply Geralt wished for that as well. It would be like none of the last few months even happened—no unforgivable words on a mountaintop, no shameful pining away in dead-end taverns, no endless beatings in the bowels of a Nilfgaardian prison...

But the words crumbled to ash in his mouth.

“No, Geralt.” These new words felt like a damnation, or perhaps a salvation. “I’m not okay.”

Jaskier felt something inside him shatter, felt himself becoming undone. Felt his tenuous grasp on the solidity of hope, and beauty, and love slip through his fingers, felt his belief in the _good_ and the _true_ begin to harden, calcify—

He only realized he was sobbing when he felt the soft calluses of Geralt’s hand loop around his neck and pull him in close. Geralt’s touch was impossibly light, impossibly tender. Impossible.

Jaskier gasped for breath, for dignity, for some gods-damned peace. And Geralt held him.

“I’m…” Geralt’s voice in his ear was halting, unsure. “You know I’m not a wordsmith like you. I don’t know what I can say to make things right. I doubt there’s anything I _can_ say to make things right. But I’m… I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I’m so sorry for all of it.”

Jaskier will never know who pulled apart first. But when he came back to himself, he was propped back against the silk pillows, his ribs beating a steady thrum of pain against his chest.

“Ow,” he moaned. Geralt was leaning over him, hands hovering tentatively, wearing an expression of mild concern. Which, on Geralt, meant he was tearing himself up inside. “I mean, ‘wow,’” Jaskier said quickly, albeit still weakly. “That was...a lot. I don’t know what to say.”

“You, at a loss for words?” Geralt’s mouth quirked upward, a hesitant smile.

Jaskier sighed. Geralt’s hint of a smile turned into a frown.

“Geralt, you were right,” Jaskier said quietly, ignoring Geralt’s look of disquiet. “With that Witcher elixir coursing through my veins..well, it felt... _good_. I felt powerful.” His eyes flashed fever-bright. “I’ve been thinking… what if I—what if I underwent your Witcher mutations as well? Clearly, my body can handle it—”

Geralt’s face had turned to stone. “Jaskier. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said harshly.

“No, I mean yes, but—hear me out. I could be more useful to you, I could help you instead of always holding you back. If I were more like you—”

“I _never_ wanted you to be like me!” Geralt snarled. Suddenly, he was standing, towering over Jaskier and shaking with the fury of a thousand seas. He looked every bit the terrifying Witcher that the legends had always spoken of—before Jaskier came along, that is. Jaskier had instantly noticed the unfathomable sadness in his eyes, as Geralt sat in the corner of a tavern in Posada and brooded. He noticed it now, as Geralt fumed, and growled, and hated himself.

Jaskier swallowed thickly, and forced himself to meet Geralt’s tortured gaze. “Then why…?”

_Why did you say those things on the mountaintop? Why did you give me the elixir? Why did you come for me at all?_

The enormity of Jaskier’s unfinished question echoed in the silence between them. 

“I couldn’t let you die, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice shattered in the stillness of the moment. “I need you. _You_ . Not some sick, twisted version of you. The you that filled our journeys with humor and song and—and _joy_.” He stumbled on the last word, as though it were unfamiliar on his tongue, in his heart. 

Geralt sank down into the chair beside Jaskier’s bed, utterly depleted. Jaskier looked at him strangely, barely able to comprehend what the Witcher was admitting. 

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth like a drowning fish. A very befuddled, very unsure drowning fish. “But… you hate my music.”

“I don’t hate your music,” Geralt said quietly.

Now that Jaskier thought about it...Geralt always did seem slightly more relaxed whenever Jaskier brought out his lute on the road. Though he put up a gruff front, Jaskier had begun to pick up on the tiny signs of Geralt’s restlessness abating—a slight loosening of the shoulders, a softening around the jaw, and a sense of _presence_ in his eyes, when he otherwise seemed lost in a faraway nightmare. And the way that Geralt’s exasperation whenever Jaskier got himself into trouble always seemed tinged with the slightest bit of worry...

“Hmm,” Jaskier said.

“Well…” Geralt shifted awkwardly. “I should check your bandages. May I?”

Jaskier nodded, but as Geralt leaned over he suddenly noticed the dried blood clinging to Geralt’s thigh.

“Wait—you’re hurt!”

“What?”

“Your leg. Did that happen when…” 

Geralt looked down, surprised, as though he forgot he even _had_ a leg. “Oh,” he said, smothering a grimace. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s already healing on its own—”

“Did you apply that poultice I got for you? Did you _wash_ it this time? Geralt—”

“I know, I know,” irritation flashed across Geralt’s face, but Jaskier could tell he was hiding a smile. “Stop fussing.”

“Someone needs to.”

“Indeed. Now sit _still_ for once and let me take a look…”

Jaskier had a flash of a recent memory, of a wooden table pressing into his back, of the sterile stench of a healer’s hut, and he stiffened. Butas Geralt gently peeled back his bandages, another memory followed lightly on its heels: soothing arms wrapping around his chest, cocooning him with rarely-expressed affection. 

_I could write a ballad about this_ , Jaskier thought dimly, sinking back into the lull of sleep. 

Yet…as Jaskier drifted away, he realized that he never would. Let the public apotheosize the fearsome White Wolf all they wanted. These, however, were the quiet, private moments that he would keep—for himself, and for Geralt—nestled away inside his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed! Sorry for the last chapter's delay, I blame The Witcher 3 for being so addicting. (No, I have NOT become hopelessly obsessed with The Witcher, she says, putting the books back on her shelf, turning off her Witcher video game, and posting the final chapter of her Witcher fanfic. WHY DO YOU ASK)


End file.
